Chapter 7 - Midnight at the Airstrip
Thirty miles south of Tucson, a deserted crop-dusting airstrip cut through the flat, mesquite-choked desert near Marana.
A twin-engine Gulfstream private jet sat on the cracked tarmac with its boarding stairs down, its cabin lights dimmed to a dull amber glow. Two black Cadillac Escalades were parked beside the wing, engines idling quietly. Four armed cartel sentries paced the perimeter of the asphalt, checking their watches with growing impatience.
Inside the rear passenger compartment of the lead Cadillac sat Emilio Delgado—the ruthless heir to the Sonora drug empire. He was fifty years old, wearing an immaculate white linen suit and an emerald pinky ring that caught the dashboard lights.
Delgado opened his solid-gold cigarette case, his fingers tapping irritably. “Where is Vance? He should have confirmed Reyes’s death forty-five minutes ago.”
His lieutenant in the front passenger seat glanced back nervously. “Boss, the encrypted radio channel from the Reyes estate went dead twenty minutes ago. The last transmission was gunfire and an explosion near the south orchards.”
“Did we get him?”
“We don’t know. Nobody is answering the relay.”
“Stupid, incompetent peasants,” Delgado cursed, snapping his lighter shut. “Tell the pilot to start the engines. If Vance failed, Damon will have Phoenix on complete lockdown within the hour. We fly back to Hermosillo tonight and regroup with the main army.”
Before the lieutenant could speak into his radio, a single pair of high beams cut through the darkness from the access road.
A battered pickup truck bounced violently across the tarmac, its radiator hissing steam, speeding directly toward the private jet.
“Hold your fire!” Delgado ordered, leaning forward between the front seats. “That might be Julian’s extraction unit.”
The pickup truck skidded to a stop twenty yards from the Cadillac. The headlights stayed on, glaring directly into the eyes of Delgado’s bodyguards, blinding their view of the vehicle's interior.
The driver’s door swung open slowly. A figure stepped out into the harsh beam of the lights.
It was not Julian Vance.
It was Damon Reyes.
He had discarded his torn jacket. He wore a black dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, dark trousers, and an assault rifle hanging loose from a single-point tactical sling across his chest. His face was streaked with soot and dried blood, but his dark eyes were completely steady, cold, and merciless.
Delgado’s sentries immediately raised their weapons, but Damon did not dive for cover.
He reached into the passenger side of the truck and dragged Julian Vance out by his collar, tossing him onto the tarmac like a sack of discarded grain. Julian’s hands were zip-tied behind his back, his expensive clothes shredded, his broken leg dragging uselessly across the asphalt.
“Looking for your partner, Emilio?” Damon’s voice carried across the silent runway, cutting through the low whine of the idling jet turbines.
Delgado stared in sheer disbelief. He stepped out of his luxury vehicle, surrounded by his six remaining bodyguards who kept their submachine guns aimed at Damon’s chest.
“Damon,” Delgado said slowly, trying to mask the sudden tremor in his voice. “You are a difficult man to kill.”
“You hired cheap help,” Damon answered, nudging Julian with the toe of his boot. “Julian told me everything before we left the estate. He told me about the secret bank accounts in Panama. He told me about the payoffs to the border agents. And he told me how you paid him twenty thousand dollars four years ago to put a bullet in Mateo Castillo’s back.”
Delgado glanced down at Julian Vance with utter disgust. “He was always a weak link. Greedy, vain, and careless.” Delgado spread his hands wide, attempting a diplomatic smile. “Look at us, Damon. We are business leaders. We don’t need to slaughter each other over a dead driver and a broken contract. Take Julian. Do whatever you want to him. I’ll double the territory Vance promised you. We can split the transit corridors fifty-fifty.”
Damon looked at Delgado, then looked up at the private jet ready to carry the cartel lord to safety.
May you like
“Mateo Castillo was my friend,” Damon said quietly. “His wife cleans the floors in my home. His daughter brought me a warning tonight that saved my life. You don’t have enough money in your Swiss accounts to buy your way out of what you owe that little girl.”
Delgado’s friendly expression instantly vanished, replaced by a vicious sneer. “Kill him!” he screamed to his guards.
